


The Girl In the Crypt

by Caenea



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Much death, Oral Sex, Sex, battle training, graphic descriptions of death, tense reunions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-03
Updated: 2018-04-03
Packaged: 2019-04-18 02:16:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,050
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14202888
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Caenea/pseuds/Caenea
Summary: Sequel to: The Watcher and the Watched.Sandor and Arya are reunited, but they have a past to work through and a battle to fight. Not all of their friends will survive, but who will be left standing at the end? And Sandor really forgive her for the way she left him?





	The Girl In the Crypt

**Author's Note:**

> I... wrote a sequel.
> 
> In like a day. 
> 
> Please God, I am cured. 
> 
> Can I have kudos or comments? They're always so nice :)

He had looked for her at once, because there was a score to settle between them. Even his righteous anger at her leaving him to die on a fucking mountain was dimmed though - because Brienne of fucking Tarth had said those magic words - she's alive you know. Arya. So he had come to find her, to see for himself that she was breathing and living. And there she was, small and still in the candlelight - but unmistakably, completely alive.

 

She looked so different now. The round face he remembered seemed to have become more pointed, cheekbones like knives. She looked more like her father now. Her hair was longer too, tied back as Ned Stark had worn his own, as many Northmen wore their hair. And she was wearing a jerkin and breeches and that bloody skinny little sword was still at her hip. But it was no longer alone, there was a very fancy dagger at her other hip, handle curved and laid with what looked like gold. Where had she got that from, he had to wonder. She'd either thinned out or her tits had got bigger - or it was just a case of better fitting clothes. He watched her for a long time, while she stood at the feet of what he assumed was meant to be the statue of Ned Stark, but then a shudder seemed to go through her and she was moving. There was no time for him to duck into the shadows or retreat away, so instead he stood his ground so he would be the first thing she saw.

 

His breath caught as she ground to a halt facing him. He watched the emotions chase over her little pointed face, and he deliberately didn't speak. Neither did she, she just stared. First up was _guilt_ , it was unmistakable. He supposed that made him feel a little bit less angry, because at least there was a part of her that felt bad for what was probably best not mentioned. Then there was _joy_ , and it took his breath away, because the heat of it was staggering. And she was stepping towards him - Gods, she was still so tiny - and her hand was reaching out for him. He didn't know why he stepped back, but he did. The hurt on her face was awful and he couldn't bear it - so he walked away. He turned his back on her and he just walked away. _Sandor_.

 

It was so quiet he could pretend it was the wind.

 

He was there, hidden in the shadows when she reunited with her brother. He was there, hidden in the shadows when Gendry rushed her off her feet and called her my lady and got himself walloped for his trouble. He was there, hidden in the shadows when she met the Dragon Queen and explained coolly that she was trained enough to be in any coming battle. He was there, hidden in the shadows when she trained and it took his breath away. The weird movements he had seen her practise - Gods, that felt like another life - now translated into a deadly fight that saw her take down everyone from Unsullied to Dothraki screamers, from her brother to Brienne of fucking Tarth. The only one who got the best of her was the one they all kept calling Grey Worm - whatever the hell kind of name that was - and she became obsessed with him. She insisted that he teach her everything he knew, insisted that he practised with her at every available opportunity. Her fights drew an audience no matter how many took place, everyone eager to see Lady Arya Stark of Winterfell as a trained and ruthless fighter. And though he was confident she never saw him, he was always watching too.

 

The rumours reached his ears. Winterfell was not big enough to leave him in ignorance of the gossip, as much as part of him wanted to. The other half of him absorbed every single mention of her with the eagerness of a starving man in front of a bowl of stew. The rumours were terrifying. The rumours were she could change her face, the Dothraki called her shadow, the whispers said that she had been a contract assassin in Braavos. The rumours claimed she had a giant she-wolf whom she could control, the Unsullied called her death, the whispers said that she was responsible for the massacre at the Twins. The facts were only slightly less chilling than the rumours. The fact was that she had slit Petyr Baelish's scheming, plotting throat in the Great Hall at Winterfell - letting him drown in his own blood - on her sister's orders. The fact was that she'd come back from Braavos with a set of deadly skills and the brains to use them.

 

And the fact was, he had no idea what to say to her. He had a thousand things he wanted to say. _How could you leave me?_ Too soft. _Why did you leave me?_ Too open. _I missed you_. Too whiny. _I hate you._ Patently untrue. _Where have you been?_ Too dominating. _I'm glad you're alive._ Maybe. _What the fuck, wolf bitch?_ Possibly.

 

He retired to his assigned chamber each night and each night a part of him hoped to the Gods that she would be in his room when he turned around. Each night she never was and each night part of him was relieved. He never saw her look for him but sometimes, during his own spars with various people, he would feel a little like he was being watched - but if he ever turned, he saw nobody he knew. And yet it was her gaze, he knew the weight of it like the weight of his sword - familiar. The Gods knew where or how she hid herself, but some of him drew comfort from her watch.

 

He had a horrible feeling that Sansa knew. That the red-headed woman looked at him and saw his watch on her sister, that she looked at him and knew exactly why he was avoiding tiny Arya Stark. If she did she never spoke of it, and he was wholly grateful for it. There were some fairly disturbing rumours about her too - her and her now-dead bastard husband. He hadn't asked too many questions about that either. Seemed like too much had changed and too much was different for his tastes. Maybe, if he survived this mess and if they won, he'd just bugger off to be a farmer somewhere. Somewhere peaceful, somewhere isolated, somewhere where he wasn't the Hound, Sandor Clegane but just Sandor.

 

When the news came down that the Wall had smashed to bits and the Dead had crossed it, something in him whispered now. So for the first time in his entire life, he went looking for a woman. There was no more time to be proud or to be able to deny what was coming and to pretend they had all the time in the world to work their shit out. But no matter where he looked, he could not find the tiny woman, and in the end he stumped up to Brienne and asked her where Arya was. Brienne had shot him a look that was entirely too knowing for his tastes but had said she believed Arya to be in the Godswood.

 

Gods, he hated these places. He had no time for Gods, whatever name people slapped on them, and it made him slightly uncomfortable to think she did. He found her stood silent beneath the Heart Tree, gazing up at the face carved into the trunk. She wore no cloak against the biting cold of the winter snow she was standing practically ankle-deep in, just stood there in her tunic-coat and leather jerkin. So very still. Despite his utter disregard for Gods, he was hesitant - if she was praying, he very much doubted she would want him to disturb those prayers. But she took a deep breath and seemed to come back to life, and he took a hesitant step. She turned to him and something on her face seemed almost resigned. There was a snow covered ledge or tree trunk or seat or something near the tree and she crossed to it, sitting down with her eyes never leaving his face.   
                "Sandor," she said, and this time there was no pretending it was the wind. "Sit with me?" It was a question. He could refuse.

 

He sat down beside her and together, they just stared out at the snow-coated Godswood and didn't say a damn word - until she broke the silence.

                "I would have understood hatred," she said and oh, how quiet her voice was. "I would have understood a sword in the gut for leaving you the way I did. I would have understood you telling everyone that I broke a soldier's code and just left you suffering. I would have understood you yelling at me. I would have deserved all of that." He could taste the bitterness of her words. "But this hurt, Sandor." He didn't have to ask her what she meant.

                "Good."

                "Fair enough." She sat quiet for another second before she jumped up. "Come on," she ordered. "Come with me."

                "Why?" He tried not to notice he was already following her. She didn't answer him, didn't look back, just strode back to the castle and into the practise yard. People had just automatically flowed back from her and when she whirled to face him he saw why. There was _death_ in those grey eyes.         

                "You and me, Sandor. We're going to fight this out. You can get on at me for leaving you to die in those mountains." She was tossing her jerkin and tunic aside, leaving her just in her shirt and her breeches. He was very, very aware of how many people were in the courtyard - and who could potentially hear about this.

                "Don't be stupid girl." She didn't take the warning - when had she ever listened to him?

                "Are you scared?" It was the surest way to get him to draw his sword.

                "Fine. You want to do this, let's do it." The smile she gave him was pure triumph.

 

He expected it to be easy. He expected it to be over fast and for it to end with her on her back. But it was not over quickly - every time he lunged for her she was gone, ducked or weaved or stepped aside. She moved like water, she was fluid, she was good. And most importantly, she had excellent control. Neither of them were using training swords, neither of them were going easy on the other but so far, neither of them had landed a blow. The shriek of metal when their swords finally clashed sounded brutally loud in the almost uncanny silence. He could see the sweat shining at her throat, see her shoulders heaving as she panted. He might, just might, have the length of stamina on her, there was a chance she would tire enough to make a mistake but suddenly there was sweat stinging his own eyes and he couldn't quite see. Suddenly she was just gone, vanished like smoke - until he felt the metal at his throat.

  
She had leapt from the ground onto a discarded cart and used the height to drag him so close he could feel her tits on his back. The fancy dagger was in her hand and pressed to his neck and suddenly all there was inside him was rage. He manhandled her over his shoulder, seizing her wrist to stop her stabbing him in the throat. She was on the ground but didn't stay, she'd flipped back onto her feet and the anger on her face matched his own. They were aiming to hurt now, he had forgotten where he was and who they both were - all he wanted was for her to know how much it had killed him to watch her walk away. The swords were clashing more often, but she was the one who drew blood first. There was a hot sting on his arm and blood bloomed on his shirt, and she was backing up, Needle and the dagger both out and the fury on her face nearly took his breath away. He slashed at the arm holding Needle, saw the red start staining her shirt sleeve where it fell open to show her skin. She dropped the sword with a clatter, renewed her grip on the dagger, she was steaming towards him looking murderous and he brought his sword up because Gods help him but he was going to defend himself and –

                "Stop!" The ringing shout cut through even the roaring in his ears and he stopped, turning to see who was shouting. When he didn't get impaled by a dagger, he had to assume she had stopped too. Sansa Stark was sweeping towards them both, Jon Snow beside her - and both of them looked very angry indeed. The courtyard was rammed with people, all gaping at the two of them in horror.

                "Fuck off," Arya panted at her sister. "This doesn't concern you." Sansa ignored her magnificently - which was probably for the best. She still looked livid.

                "Brienne, take Sandor to the Maester. Jon, bring Arya."

                "I don't -" But whatever she didn't want, he never heard, because Brienne had him by the arm and she was dragging him away. When he glanced back, Jon Snow was bundling Arya through a door.

 

To her credit, Brienne held her tongue until the Maester had declared stitching would not be necessary and had bandaged his arm up. She even held her tongue until they were alone, until she'd marched him back to his own room.

                "What the fuck?" she asked, staring at him. He blew out a breath.

                "Old scores. It's done now. Settled." She snorted.

                "I should think so."

                "I need to see her," he said shortly. "We got the fight done."

                "Not an idea right now," Brienne said. "You bust in on her and her family now, it'll only be a question of whether the King stabs you or the Lady Sansa stabs you. Stay here. I'll go and find out what's happening."

 

She was gone a long time, and he passed it by running his entire life through his head. What a pointless shitstorm most of it had been. Fighting, killing, hating. Then she'd landed along and he'd dragged her round half the country to try and ransom her. He had to wonder at what point she had burrowed her way inside him and taken up residence like she _owned_ him. He would have liked to _think_ it was the day he'd taken her maidenhood. He had to _admit_ that it had happened long before that.

 

He was left alone so long, it was sunset before anyone came. He expected it to Brienne, or Sansa, or perhaps even Jon Snow. He had never expected it to be her. She was sporting a bandaged arm of her own, and there was a glimmer of a smile as she held hers up.

                "Truce?" He nodded.

                "Truce." She came in, shut his door behind her and there they were - alone. He stared down at her and felt something deep inside him ache.

 

She crossed his room and perched on the edge of his bed.

                "We should talk."

                "Why don't you start with leaving me in the mountains?" he growled, the bitterness rising like bile in his throat. He did not sit down beside her. He didn't trust himself not to drag her into his lap and kiss her stupid.

                "I couldn't do it," she returned and it took him by surprise. He'd expected to hear _I wanted you to suffer._ "I couldn't have killed you, Sandor."

                "I was on your bloody list wasn't I?" he growled.

                " _Was_ ," she emphasised. "You came off my list a long time ago - long before that day. And I swore never to kill a man who didn't deserve it."

                "It wouldn't have been a killing," he snapped. "It would have been a mercy."

                "And I would never have forgiven myself," she snapped back at him.

                "World doesn't revolve around your feelings, Stark," he growled.

                "Not saying it does. I wanted to, did you think that watching you in pain didn't fucking _destroy_ me? Did you think it was easy for me to walk away? Did you think it was easy for me to leave you, did you think it didn't break my fucking heart to hear you screaming after me?"

                "Break your heart -" he started derisively.

                "I loved you!" She'd shouted it at him. He didn't think he'd heard her right. She was breathing slightly hard, he was reeling and both of them were staring at each other. She licked her lips slightly nervously but credit to her, she did not break her gaze. "I still do," she whispered thinly.

 

He didn't know what to do. He didn't know what to say. He didn't know how to tell her _I love you too_ so he didn't. Instead he crossed the room in one stride and dragged her into his arms for a desperate, bruising kiss. She fisted her hands in his shirt, countering his desperation with force of her own.

                "Say it again," he demanded hoarsely, tearing his mouth from hers and dragging his mouth down her neck in a trail of kisses.

                "I love you," she said obligingly. "I love you, Sandor." Her hands were at his shirt, yanking it over his head even as his tore hers down the front and shoved the remains of it off her arms. He lifted her, dropped her onto his bed without any ceremony or finesse. It was only then that he saw the scars littering her stomach. Those were stab wounds. In one of them, someone had obviously twisted the blade to cause maximum damage - and maximum pain. He got beside her, pulled her to straddle his hips so he could touch them.

                "Braavos," she whispered. "The parting gift from the Faceless Men when I refused to kill a woman because she did nothing to deserve it. The Many-Faced God demanded a name apparently - so they decided mine would do."

                "What happened to the one who did this? he asked, running his fingertips over the bumps and ridges. She started rocking back and forth over his cock and red-hot life rushed through him.

                "I killed her," she said, almost dreamily. "I lured her into darkness and I ran her through with my sword. I took her face and left a blood trail so they'd know what I did. She sought to make me suffer - so I made her die a slow death." He grabbed her hips, forcing her movements to near-violence. She gasped, tossed her head back.

                "Still not right in the head then," he growled.

                "I still love it," she answered. He sat up abruptly, captured her mouth again.

 

He lay her down and stripped her breeches off, lay between her legs and feasted on her until she was a juddering mess beneath him, until her cunt was so wet he slid inside as easily as if he'd only fucked her for the last time that morning. She clasped arms and legs around him and held him while he fucked her, while he reclaimed her, body and soul as his because after all, he was a dog and he wanted the _world_ to know what he claimed as his own. She babbled her thoughts into his ear as she always had done, just praises and compliments and love, until his head was so full of them he thought he'd burst with it. And when he came, pumping his seed into her without caring a damn for the consequences that act could have, the hollow inside him felt whole once more.

 

When it was over and she lay beside him, almost nose to nose with him, she spoke of the future for the first time ever.

                "We could all be dead in a week. And if some frozen bastard with icy eyes is going to destroy me, then I don't want to die Arya Stark."

                "Put one of your faces on then." She smiled at him but shook her head.

                "I didn't mean that. I meant I want to die as Arya Clegane. If we're all fucked anyway, might as well do it in fucking _style_."

  
So they'd sneaked off to the Godswood and done the thing with just Tormund - fresh from the broken Wall - and, of all people, Grey Worm as their witnesses. At least if Jon Snow decided to get all bent up about his sister's honour, someone would be able to attest that they were married right and proper. He'd brought her back to his room and fucked her up against the bloody door, her legs wrapped round him like a vice as she writhed and gasped in his arms. He'd kept them face to face, refusing to take his eyes off her for even a second as he surged in and out of that tight, wet heat that gripped him like her cunt had been crafted _exclusively_ for his cock. She had fallen apart well before he did, and he'd fucked her through it, watched her eyes roll back and felt her nails claw his back to shreds when he picked the pace up to finish. She'd been wailing loudly enough to wake the dead but if anyone living did hear her - and they must have, there was no possible way for them to have gone unheard - nobody came.

 

He expected Jon Snow to demand his head, half-expected Sansa Stark to demand poison in his food, assumed Brienne would have plenty to say. But Brienne said nothing beyond a very pointed smirk, Sansa did nothing beyond having her sister into her chambers for what Arya described as a _chat_ and Jon Snow just brooded about it after telling Sandor that he could have at least _asked_ for his permission first. Still, Arya had solved that one by sticking her chin up and pointing out that no man in the world could claim that she required his permission to do anything at all. _Who I fuck and who I marry is my business, thank you._ And he'd had to bury his face in his sleeve and pretend to be coughing in order to hide his laughter at the appalled look on Snow's face as Arya waltzed out of the room without a care in the world.

 

The Dead came.

  
The Dead came and he lost her in the chaos and the nightmare field the battle became. The Night King had resurrected the Dragon Queen's dead dragon-child, rode him into battle and between blue flames and red flames he barely even saw what he hacked at, just cutting down the dead while his entire being screamed out Arya! But no answering call ever came, and when all of a sudden the Wights exploded into white shards or collapsed into heaps of broken bones around him, he found that he was standing alone on the battlefield, surrounded by the dead. He started searching through the ruins, little fires still burning here and there. He saw naught but dead faces, faces of people he had known. He saw Brienne of Tarth with her sword still clasped in her hand, battle-rage still on her face but her blue eyes saw nothing as they stared up at the sky. He saw Beric Dondarrion, kneeling beside a pile of bones and it was only when he got close that he saw the sword buried in his chest that was keeping him propped up. He saw Jon Snow standing over the body of the Night King, drenched in blood but somehow alive, with the Dragon Queen standing beside him and clasped close. It was a story that could wait. His soul was screaming her name, so he turned his back and kept on searching.

 

He found Grey Worm's body with a shattered sword and shield still raised to defend himself. He found Tormund, missing a hand but alive and very angry. Tormund had called out to him, but he shook his head. I have to find her. He could not be sure if he'd spoken the words aloud. The wind moaned his name as he kept searching.

 

The bodies went on for miles and his heart was aching. Some of them were nothing but ash, caught by dragon fire and reduced to nothing. But in the centre of the mud, with snow starting to fall, a thin flash of steel caught his eye. Needle in his hands felt like she had felt in his arms - like a tiny bird. She would never willingly have lost this sword. He carried it with him as he kept up a search that common sense told him was a pointless thing. He had never been one for common sense so he kept on searching. The wind kept breathing his name and every time it did he found himself praying that it was her. But he never found her, he found himself bellowing her name with increasing desperation. Jon Snow was limping towards him, Tormund with him - the stump of his arm was dressed, how long had he been searching? - and Jon saw Needle in his hands.

                "I can't find her," he said dully. Jon was reaching for Needle, but he snatched it from his reach. "No. She'll want it when I find her."

  
They had to drag him from the battlefield, gentle voices telling him he was too hurt to carry on.

                "I'm not hurt," he protested, baffled.

                "Sandor, you're drenched in blood." He wasn't sure who had said it but he let Tormund start leading him away. He could hear Jon Snow behind him.

                "Search the battlefield. Bring the bodies of all our friends to the castle. Send for me when - if - you find her." It was the _if_ that nearly destroyed him.

  
Please Gods not dragon fire, please Gods don't let that have been her end. If the bastard Gods had ordained that she should die like that, he'd kill both those bloody fire-breathing fuckers and their bitch Queen himself, consequences be damned. At the very least then he'd die too. If he was going to have to bury her in a cold crypt, then please let him have something to bury. Please let him have a place to mourn her, even if it had to be in the crypt of this place.

  
The Maester had forced milk of the poppy on him when he'd tried getting back out to rejoin the search, utterly determined that he would not rest until he found her. But some Unsullied cunt had held him down and the Maester had poured it down his protesting throat and when he woke, Sansa Stark was sat beside him.

                "Is she -" he grated out and her head whipped round to look at him. Tears were on her cheeks and her eyes were swollen, and in that second his heart just ceased.

                "She's alive," Sansa whispered. "But barely. The Maester says she cannot live." He threw back the furs they had covered him in, found a shirt and dragged it on over bandages covering who knew how many wounds.

                "Take me to her. Now." She had not tried to argue.

  
They'd laid her out in her old bedroom, whiter than the linen of her pillows, even her lips colourless. She was breathing, but even he could see that it was shallow and barely there. Sansa wept behind him but he could find no tears for the tiny woman in the bed. He sat beside her and did not remove his eyes from her face again. People came to him to recount the cost of that last, dreadful battle.

  
Brienne, Grey Worm, Beric, Jorah - they would have graves. Uncountable Unsullied and Dothraki whose names meant nothing to him would have pyres or graves. Tormund had lived, Lord Glover and Lord Manderly had lived. The Dragon Queen had lived, Jon Snow had lived. Tyrion Lannister and Davos Seaworth could not be found, burnt to ashes like so many others. Gendry had escaped the battle with a burn scar worse than Sandor's own across his handsome face, and he'd limp badly for the rest of his life, but he would live. Tormund had lost his right hand and a chunk of flesh from his left thigh but he too would live. Jon Snow would never see out of his left eye again and his use of his left hand would be limited but he'd live.

  
And after a while, when he stopped recognising names and stopped caring about their names, his world shrank down to Arya. They had believed her dead until she gasped when they shoved a Dothraki horse off her legs. Both of them were broken. A gut wound had cut so deep that they picked her up to bring her in, half her insides had fallen out. And her right arm was so hopelessly mangled by Gods knew what, the Maester had shaken his head and said it could not be saved. He said _she_ could not be saved. The best they could do for her was dress the gut wound and keep her unconscious with milk of the poppy. She will not suffer now. She could have been described as peaceful as she lay there, so there was that at least. At least here, at the end, she wasn't going to suffer.

  
Someone must have washed her, or at least washed her face, because there was no indication that she had been in any kind of battle, especially with furs up to her neck and hiding the bandages. She was still breathing. He thought it might have been three days since the battle, but it was hard to tell between his own spell under milk of the poppy and because he only slept in snatches, then jerked awake to check she was still breathing.

  
He prayed to Gods that he did not believe in; he prayed to Gods who had never, ever listened to a single prayer of his; he prayed to Gods he barely remembered the names of to _let her live._ He would have given up anything if it meant that merciless Gods would be merciful. It was Sansa who came, her eyes dry now and her face very drawn. She looked twenty years older than she was when she sat down on the other side of her sister's bed. He just looked at her.

                "I had to come," she said quietly. "I stayed away too long. I wouldn't have forgiven myself if she died without me." He shook his head.

                "She's not going to die."

                "Sandor, it's been four days," she said, and he hated how gentle her voice was. It had been a little longer than he thought then.

                "She's not going to die," he hissed.

                "Sandor, she hasn't eaten or drunk anything for four days. If nothing else will take her, that will." He refused to hear it, he covered his ears so he did not need to hear it. Then she was there, her hands dragging his down and holding them tight. When he finally looked at her, her eyes were glittering with tears.

                "She can't," he whispered.

                "Sometimes people need to know they can. Sometimes they need to know that those of us left _let them go._ "

                "I do _not_ let her go," he said fiercely. Whether she could sense the lost cause or if she could sense the rage he didn't know, but she dropped it.

                "You should eat too," she said. "I can sit with her."

                "I'm not leaving her."

  
And he didn't, not for anything beyond taking a shit. He sat by her side for a full week, while her family drifted in and out, while the Maester came three times a day to dose her with milk of the poppy or change her dressings, while maids came to change her sheets. He just wiped her lips with water, or squeezed drops into her slightly open mouth. He didn't know what else to do but he couldn't forget Sansa's words. _Sometimes they need to know we let them go._

  
She started to develop sores on her back from lying in the same position all the time but still she did not die. The gut wound started to stink no matter how many times the Maester washed it and still she did not die. The breaks in her legs started to set in unnatural twists and still she did not die. The milk stopped being so effective, and her face started to twist up before the next dose was due and still she did not die. Fever set in and for a day or so she would twitch and shake while he sponged her face and still she did not die. Then the eighth day dawned and she was frowning in her unconscious daze and muttering utter rubbish in the grips of her fever. He leant close to hear her.   
                "Nymeria, go. Kill you girl. Run away, run away. That's not you. That's not me. Catching cats, Father. Syrio says - catching cats. Dragon skulls, death, they're down there, they were talking about you. Not Bran. Little Bran. Fell. Sandor. Sansa. Sandor. Let me go back. Can help him. Want to help Robb. Blood's warm, blood's clean." He leant back to see someone watching him.

  
Bran Stark was watching him. They said strange things about him. The Dothraki wouldn't go near him, claimed he could see the future and it wasn't natural.

                "Have you come to tell me to give up too?" he asked, his eyes going back to her fevered face.

                "I've come to tell you to try and make her drink," the boy answered calmly. "I cannot see how this might end, there are futures with her, there are futures without her. Try and make her drink."

                "Will it save her?" he asked.

                "It will ease her."

  
It was thin enough hope, but hope it was. So he increased his efforts with the water, moistening her dry lips and trickling it down her throat. But it made her choke, he could hear it gargling in her throat as she tried to cough it up. He tried using the sponge to squeeze out a drop at a time but even that seemed to distress her. _Sometimes they need to know we let them go._

  
The fever broke at least, but nothing else was healing. And finally, on the tenth day, he stood up when Sansa was there. He leant over Arya's still form, pressed a kiss onto her forehead. She was so very thin now.

                "I'm going outside," he whispered to her. "Goodbye, wolf bitch."

  
He picked up Needle from against the wall, took it to the Godswood. He stopped again to pick up whetstone and polishing cloth and went to the Heart Tree. He polished the fine blade, ran the whetstone down the steel until it was satisfactorily sharp. He was still there when Sansa came, her face nearly as pale as his wife's had been. She said not a word, she did not have to say a word. He knew she'd died while he was making sure her sword was ready for the grave.

  
_He found her in the crypt, beside her father. Her statue looked peaceful, her cupped hands holding a lit candle that showed him Sansa had been there at least. He never lit candles when he came, he didn't believe in the Gods to make praying have a point. He just laid his hand on the tomb and kept it there while he told her about his little farm outside Wintertown, about how the crops were doing now summer was coming back. He told her about how the snow was melting. And he told her that every time he walked inside for the night and closed his door, he turned around hoping she'd be sat by the fire with her boots on the hearthstone to warm her feet._

_  
Gods, he missed her. And the hollow inside him had the name Arya._

  
  



End file.
